Alex Kava - Black Friday

Did the man with the syringe give up because he knew she was with Patrick and he couldn't get to her? Or did he no longer

need

to get to her because she was with Patrick?

Rebecca glanced at her friend. His hair was tousled, his jaw bristled with dark stubble. His eyes watched her with an intensity she wasn't used to seeing. What was it? Concern, panic, fatigue? Or something else?

How well did she really know Patrick Murphy?

"You okay?" he asked as he reached for her hand again.

She pulled back, grabbing her bandaged arm as if in pain.

"Did they give me anything? Like for the pain?"

"I think she just localized it." Patrick was already looking around for a nurse or paramedic. "Does it hurt pretty bad?"

Now there was no doubt—concern filled his eyes when he looked back at her.

"Could you see if they have some Advil or something?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll be right back."

Rebecca watched him zigzag through the triage groups and head for a nearby exit. She patted down her pockets carefully and stopped when she saw him glance back. He disappeared from sight and she twisted around to find her coat. Quickly she found Dixon's iPhone. It was turned off. She decided to keep it off.

She scooted to the edge of the covered table, almost forgetting the needle and IV tube in her arm. Another glance over her shoulder. No Patrick. She bit down on her lower lip and pulled the needle out, bending her elbow to stop any bleeding. Then she eased off the table, awkwardly, without use of her hands and trying not to notice the ache in her bandaged arm.

Still no sign of Patrick. She saw an EXIT sign in the other direction and that's where she headed. Within minutes she made her way through the crowded lobby and found an ATM. No one noticed her. There was too much commotion. She kept her head down but her eyes darted around everywhere. She slipped her debit card into the machine, keyed in her PIN and waited. She'd get enough cash for a cab ride, something to eat. Maybe she'd better get enough for a hotel room, but someplace near the hospital.

The card spit out of the machine and the display screen blinked: CARD REFUSED.

There had to be a mistake.

She'd used this debit card a couple of times on their trip and in various locations. She knew she still had about $425 in the account. She slid the card back in and before she could key in the PIN the machine spit it out again, repeating the message.

Rebecca glanced around. Still, no one paid attention to her. There was too much chaos in and out to notice her sudden panic.

She pulled out her one and only credit card. She'd taken a cash advance from the card last month. She had a substantial cash allowance available but had disciplined herself to use it only as a last resort. This definitely qualified. She slid the credit card into the machine, waited and typed in the PIN. Maybe she'd better take out extra, especially if her debit card wasn't working. Just to be safe. All she had in her pockets was the change left from a twenty.

The machine spit this card out, too. CARD REFUSED.

Don't panic, she told herself. There's just something wrong with this machine. She'd find another ATM. No big deal.

She found the exit with confident strides through the midst of rescue personnel and bloodied shoppers. She was in good shape compared to them. That's what she kept telling herself. Then she pushed through the side door and she was outside. When had it gotten dark?

The cold hit her in the face. She had to catch her breath. It had started snowing again. The wind whipped around her. On this side of the hotel there were only lights in the corners of the parking lot. And suddenly the confidence seemed to slide right out of her. She was all alone. Nothing new there. She was used to being on her own. So why did this time feel like she was sliding off a cliff?

There wasn't much to go on, yet Maggie made note of everything. Small details that appeared insignificant at first glance, could end up breaking a case. Despite the grainy black-and-white video she might find something. Except A.D. Kunze expected more than something. He expected her to supply a conclusive profile, one irrefutable enough he could use for a search warrant. He made it sound like she should have names, addresses and social security numbers just by examining the black-and-white, three-second delayed movements of these young homicide bombers.

Unfortunately he wasn't the only one. Television and movies had turned profiling into a sort of magic act that had people believing with a few clues and a wave of the hand, you could pull the rabbit out of the hat, so to speak. Even Kunze insisted there was a scientific formula—which was almost as bad as magic—that if a suspect showed certain characteristics or traits—characteristic number one, two and five from a theoretical psychological profiling chart—then, of course, the suspect fit a specific category. Organized, disorganized. Anger, vengeance. Ritualistic, chaotic. Two out of three and voilŕ, just look for the nearest sociopathic narcissist with a speech impediment dressed in a double-breasted navy blue suit. If only it were that easy.

Maggie had a premed background, a bachelor's degree in criminal psychology and a master's in behavioral psychology. Early in her career she had earned a forensic fellowship at Quantico. Yet, even she believed profiling was more about observation than anything else. The trick—if there was one—was seeing what others missed, taking account of what may appear obvious to others. And just as important as paying attention to what was left behind, you needed to pay attention to what was absent.

Notably absent in this case so far? Hours had passed and no one had taken credit for the attack. Not even a suicide note or video…yet. Already it didn't quite fit into a mass killing category like Virginia Tech or Columbine High School. Also absent was that none of these young men looked nervous or anxious. None of them seemed to fit the profile of a homicide bomber or a mass murderer.

"Is this the one?" Yarden asked.

He had been waiting on her almost to the point of being annoying. Ordinarily she'd rather be left alone to run through each tape, over and over as many times as necessary until she was sure no detail had gone unnoticed. But this was Yarden's territory. Actually his mastery of the control panel and ability to follow instructions were saving them valuable time.

"Yes. If you could rewind it from when we first see him."

It was the track on the corner monitor from the third-floor camera in what Yarden had marked as NW1. This would be the third time Maggie had asked to see this particular track.

There had to be something here that she was missing. What was she not seeing?

Yarden began the tape, fingers ready to freeze-frame or zoom in. But Maggie let it play. She wanted to examine Bomber #1, focusing only on him, picking him out of the distant crowd then watching as he got closer and closer.

His head didn't swivel or dart around. His hands stayed by his side in a comfortable, easy stride. There was nothing to indicate he was nervous or anxious. He didn't glance around, worried about being followed. He didn't look around for cameras, didn't even seem to care whether or not one caught him on film.

He wore a jacket, jeans, tennis shoes, a baseball cap. Nothing sagged, bulged or flapped over to hide any weapons or to disguise his appearance. Nor was there anything to indicate he belonged to a gang. No backward cap, no special hand signals, no T-shirt with a message. He appeared to be dressed in regular street clothes.

Maggie guessed his age at somewhere between eighteen and twenty-six. Like the others he was undeniably Caucasian. Light-colored hair curled over the collar of his jacket but not over his ears. Sideburns were long but trimmed, and on the morning after Thanksgiving, Maggie couldn't help but notice he had taken time to shave. Was that something a twenty-year-old took time out to do, especially if he knew he was going to the mall to blow himself up?